SCP

The Subject is escorted into the room by two armed guards both holding a rifle. Each of the guards were wearing gas masks with reflective lenses, and whole body gas suits. The creature between them was a humanoid figure with grey skin, no clothing had been supplied to it.

The room was a spartan affair, with 5 meter long walls painted a flat grey. In the center of the room was a single chair facing a two way mirror with a speaker underneath it. The small party entered from the opposite side of the mirror.

“Have a seat,” the guards stopped and flanked the door allowing the grey fairly featureless creature continue to take a seat. After The Subject had sat down the speaker crackled into life.

“In a way, please tell me about your actions during the war…and more to the point. Tell us about your motivations for doing what it is that you did. Why help people that aren’t your people?”

“You’ve struck right at the heart of it, Disembodied Voice. As you may know, or not, my kind are predators—we are the monsters of Germanic legend that lure away the lonesome and wayward, then eat them. The nastiest of my kind don’t kill their prey first. I am not like them, however, I find that our kind and humans are not so different. Millenia ago, you humans learned to adapt your environment to suit your needs—we didn’t. Like all natural things, we learned to adapt to our environment. That included an ever-evolving humanity as well.”

The creature let that take a moment to sink in. “Let’s say I was hunting—and that while after the war many of you thought the Nazis were the real monsters, I know that the real monsters were Nazis.”

There was a pause on the speaker for a moment, “Can you please elaborate more on this.”

“I was hunting some, well, you consider it some ‘thing’ in particular. This entity was masquerading as a Nazi, and I had tracked the bastard to France. That was before Viktor kindly interfered with his magic flashlight and ruined everything.”

“He was just doing his job, do you know who we are? What we do? Give me your best guess.”

“Eichmann was just doing his, too,” the shapeshifter sneered. “If I were to say that you identify, label, and contain threats to what you consider normal society, and that the Nazis did the same, would I be wrong?”

“You would be, the Nazis did what they did in order to gain more power. We do what we do in order to protect innocent people. Some believe, even people in this organization, that what we do is unethical. Keeping sentient beings like yourself locked away in cells unable to see the light of day. So we have been debating allowing sentient subjects to work for us to prove they are not a threat. Then, after a time, they will be released to return to their lives. How does this sound to you, also what name would you like to be called?’

The shapeshifter cocked its head to the side in consideration—this was a turn of events it had not anticipated. Frankly it was simply passing time with these fools before being returned to its cell in order to contemplate escape, and a healthy dose of reducing the Foundation to rubble…now it had better options. “I think, I would like that. And you may call me ‘mimic’ for now.” The creature had learned patience, after all, and could afford to wait.

“Yes, I think this arrangement will work nicely,” it said, smiling its pointy smile…

“There will be some restrictions of course. You are to never, under any circumstance, to take the form of any Foundation personnel.” A click was heard as a panel popped out of the wall, “in the drawer you will find a necklace. You are to keep it on at all times, if it is removed our arrangement will be voided.”

One of the guards who had been near the door passed Mimic and retrieved the necklace from the draw, closing the panel back as he turned around. He tossed it to Mimic as he walked back by. The necklace was plain silver, on it was a small disk with some type of rune engraved in it.

“Put the necklace on now please, do you have any questions?”

Mimic toyed with the necklace, rubbing the medallion and considering the symbol delicately engraved on it. Being of Germanic descent, it knew those runes, but didn’t know these…could be Norse or even something Asian. The shapechanger had never been East.

“No Foundation personnel, eh? Simple enough. There is one thing that I require, though, your organization’s interference has put me at considerable risk—my quarry is of a very dangerous sort. Skilled, ruthless, utterly without compassion. I request Viktor’s torch—you probably call it a flashlight in the Americas—it will enable me to defeat my prey and remove an outside threat to the Foundation as well.”

“Your quarry will have to be put on hold. We can neither confirm nor deny the existence of any such item. However if it did exist you are not currently in a position to request such items. Earn our trust, then we will see. Also the foundation is not an American organization, not by a long shot.”

It slipped the necklace over its head, and attended to its bodily sensations. Mimics are very good at knowing what they are feeling, and this one was very, very good.The necklace slid into position without any noticeable changes to itself or to Mimic.

“Thank you, your new identity will be Stacey Carter Phillips as far as other foundation workers are concerned. For the public you will be Agent Alexander Murphy, a special agent for the American Federal Bureau of Investigations. While the Foundation isn’t an American institution, you will be stationed in America at site 117-91A in the state of Kentucky. Your job there will be to do whatever is requested of you from Dr. Cosimo Greco.”

“You will be given a level 2 security clearance as well as whatever mundane equipment you may request that Dr Greco deems allowable. Again we emphasize that you are not to allow anyone, even other Foundation members, to know what you are. From this room you will be escorted to another room where you will find what you need for now, you will then be escorted to Site 117-91A. Any last questions, concerns, or requests?”

The two men in the room stepped up to either side of the creature. Though still armed their weapons were slung across their shoulders and their stances were visibly more relaxed.

“I am amiable to these conditions. I should like a notepad and pencil, the Foundation identity will need some fleshing out,” the creature smiled a bit at its pun. “Lead on, gentlemen, you’ve nothing to fear from me. I don’t shit where I eat.” Then it grinned.

One of the guards gently put his hand under Mimic’s elbow and guided him out of the room. They walked a short distance down a hallway with no obvious openings on either side. The walls were painted a dull yellow with the floor being tiled with some material that made the guards’ boots squeak with every step. Occasionally at random distances there was a number painted onto the wall, and it was at one of these numbers that the guards stopped.

There was a large 23 painted on the wall in front of the small party. The guard on Mimic’s left stepped forward and pushed against the wall where a pop was heard. As he pulled his hand back the wall opened a few inches revealing itself to actually be a well camouflaged door. The guard put his hand in the crack and pulled it open the rest of the way motioning for Mimic to continue through. The room was well lit with a small table in the center of the room and a hospital bed with a man on it on one wall.

On the table were 3 large stacks of clothing, a thick envelope with a note attached to it, and an ashtray with a box of matches beside it. The note read:

We have provided you with what we believe you will need to do your job. In the envelope you will find all the information you need about your cover story’s hometown and general background, feel free to fill in the rest as you see fit. Take one of the stacks of clothing to wear, luggage matching your selection will be left for you at your final destination. At the bottom of each of the stacks is a hood that you will wear out of this room to your final destination. The man asleep in the room with you is the form that you will be taking while you work for us. He has been specially selected for this purpose. Included in the envelope is a wallet with $150 in assorted bills, and a driver’s license. A separate wallet includes your FBI identification and badge. BURNTHISMESSAGEAFTERREADING.

Each of the stacks of clothing matched a particular style. The first was a pair of slacks with shoes to match and a plaid shirt that would be seen on a typical blue collar worker. The seconded consisted of a suit and shoes that would be found on a bank manager, with the accessories to match. The last was a very expensive black suit and shoes, with an ivory white shirt and deep red tie. In a small sack was a silver watch and tie clip.

The man on the bed was breathing slowly, apparently unconscious, of average height and weight with shaggy blonde hair. He was stripped to the waist with his only distinguishable feature being being a small capital B tattooed under the top of his left arm.

The shapeshifter took a look through these items, then went to its cover form. Lifting the limbs and turning the head this way and that, it took note of skin blemishes, wrinkles, and the like. It observed its new form for some time, then put its hand over the unconscious man’s chest, feeling the heartbeat. After a few moments, it curled its other hand into a fist, then lifted it in rhythm and smashed it down over his heart, cracking ribs and stopping the vital organ immediately. The body spasmed a few times, bloody bubbles gurgling from its mouth. The creature had no misgivings over terminating a member of the SS.

What it did next, however, could only be considered inhuman. The creature used its considerable strength to crack the victim’s skull at the temples, then hooked fingers into the eye sockets and impacts, then ripped the front of the skull off, revealing bloodied gray matter inside. Then it began eating it, gaining the victim’s memories. This was important, as the Nazi officer undoubtedly had skills the doppelganger didn’t possess, such as pistol skills, tactical combat skills, leadership, and even certain knowledges the devilish organization would probably rather not be known…taking a moment to cross-reference the lifetime it had just absorbed, Mimic realized that the victim had, in fact, known his quarry in life.

The knowledge really wasn’t that useful, as the vile shapeshifter had already moved on, however, it did confirm Mimic’s suspicions that he had been very, very close.

Back in the washroom, Mimic cleaned himself up and morphed into his new Primary, then selected the black suit with white shirt and red tie…it could always find or adapt any clothing he needed, but if Agent Parker was going to dress in clothes then they would be nice ones. After all, the Foundation had plenty of money, why not enjoy what few perks that were available?

Completing its prep, Mimic read through the file before burning the note, then walked back over to the corpse, hood in hand. He unplugged the saline drip line from the tower, draining the contents for himself before coiling up the surgical tubing and stuffing it in one pocket. Finally, Agent Phillips donned his hood and left the room.

Gustov gently places today’s newspaper down on the coffee table, rises from the couch in his living room, straightens his vest, and says in perfect English, “Who is it?” (while walking toward the door.)

“The Butler!” After a brief pause the knocked repeated, this time jarring the door’s hinges. “It’s Sargent Davids, Dr. Greco wants to see you in his office ASAP.”

The sounds of retreating footsteps leading down the hall are heard as Gustov opens the door. The hallway is painted pristine white and is lined with portraits of different historic figures, some known to the public some will forever reside in obscurity. Gustov knew that the Doctor’s office was on the other side of the maze of a house, in what was once the master bedroom.

I take a momment to gather a few items and my coat before making my way through the hose toward the Doctor’s office. Wondering the whole way what has prompted him to seek my expertise. Could it have something to do with my old research? I still have nightmares from then. God knows some of those projects should never be uncovered.

The door to the office is ajar, allowing entrance to any and all, as was the Doctor’s way. The office was a sparse affair, the only thing of note being the wall covered from floors to ceiling with safes of different sizes. Each safe had a letter and number on it’s front, with no apparent order to them. The man at the desk was dressed plainly enough with his white shirt standing in stark contrast to his olive skin.

“Mr. Gustov please have a seat,” a wave of his hand indicating the chairs in front of his desk. “How are you today?”

Gustov walks over to the chairs and takes a seat. “I’ve been doing fairly well Dr. Greco. I think I’ve adjusted well to work with the foundation so far.” He leans back in the chair and crosses his legs. “What can I do for you today?”

“I know you’ve been primarily involved in studies here but a lack of suitable personal is forcing me to move you to the field. We have an interesting incident that may require our intervention.” The doctor slid a folder across the desk towards Gustov. “At approximately 9am yesterday morning a man was found dead in his antique shop. Usually this wouldn’t arise our suspicion but the cause of death is unusual, at least anymore. The victim, Mr Henry Clay, was found to have died from starvation. After the depression, and hell even during it, these types of things are unheard of. Though what really set us on the trail is the fact that he had a full pantry and ice box. Your assignment is to go to Williamsburg Kentucky where you will meet with a Detective Samuelson, he has been told that you are on your way. He believes you to be Agent Gregory Adams of the FBI. Find out if there are any SCP’s there and if so recover them. If you need further assistance call us and we’ll send someone if we can. The armory has your equipment and the motor pool has prepped you a vehicle. Any questions?”

“Well Doctor, do we know anything about the man who died? Anything unusual about his habits or what kinds of antiques he kept in his shop? Although I assume I will be the first foundation agent on scene. How much cooperation can I expect out of Detective Samuelson?”

“As far as small town detectives go they’re usually impressed by the badge or resentful of someone being in their business. Though he seemed like a nice enough chap on the phone.” The way the doctor spoke would occasionally reveal his upbringing by an Italian family in England. “As far as I know Mr Clay didn’t do anything out of the unusual but I only have the preliminary report. I don’t know about his collection that’s your job, the Detective has promised to keep the scene empty for you. The body has been moved to the morgue but it too awaits your examination if you deem it necessary. Anything else?”

“No, I’ll grab my things and be on my way then. No point in waiting around” Gustov quickly stands and makes his way back toward the door. How dare he tell me what my job is. He asks me if I have questions, but can’t even say what kind of antiques the man sold. Is there no source of information besides the foundation’s own agents, or is no one asking questions? Whoever wrote that preliminary report should be shot, or at least taught how to gather information. I’m going to end up dead faster than I originally expected at this rate. Following the winding hallways back to his room Gustov carefully gathers everything he would need for his field kit and his wool winter coat to keep out the fall air.

The armory holds a surprisingly large assortment of weapons. It’s a shame none of my designs survived the incident I’m sure they would have come in handy by now Eventually Gustov makes his way to the requisition desk to pick up his equipment and see what vehicle he will be issued for this mission.

The armory was housed in what was once the carriage house. Attached to the main home by a covered walkway it maintained the white Gothic styling of the home. Attached on the opposite side from the home were two large doors originally used to pull in and out carriages, now they were heavily strapped in steel to reinforce them. The interior was half garage and half armory, with all the tools to go with both jobs. Through the walkway there was a small door leading into the side of the armory, walking through one was hit by the strong odor of gun oil and motor oil intermingling. A small room where a man sat working on a new rifle design on a workbench was the only way onward into the armory proper.

The man sitting at the workbench was affectionately called Lucky, he was too old when the War had started so he didn’t have to go overseas. But he earned his nickname through the loss of several of his toes on his right foot, his left leg to the knee, and his left eye to a munitions plant explosion. He was the only one left alive afterwards and was later given the nickname by SCP staff. Despite his injuries he maintained the Armory for the site as well as it’s motor-pool.

Lucky turned at the sound of someone opening the door to the garage that served as the armory, “You the new field agent?” his voice sounded like gravel. A combination of smoke damage to his lungs from the explosion, and many years of smoking cigars.

“Oh it’s you,” his voice carried obvious displeasure. “Your equipment has been loaded into the car for you, didn’t want to get your hands dirty or nothing.”

Lucky dug around a stack of papers occupying the top of a file cabinet in the corner. Finding the one he wanted he begun to read, “You’re being issued two cameras, a Geiger counter, a bag of equipment for field investigations and analysis, a gas mask and suit, and these.” Lucky looked around but whatever he was looking for was obviously missing. “Wait a second”.\

Lucky hobbled out of the work area and into the area containing the weapons. A few minutes later he returned holding a small leather case and a thick envelope.

“Here’s your cover ID. I haven’t been authorized to look at it so i hope it’s in order….or not.” Handing over the case he said, “here’s your weapon, one Colt 1911 with three magazines, loaded, and shoulder holster.” The case contained what he had said, the 1911 looked plain but was obviously well oiled and maintained, the shoulder holster was made of a black leather that matched the case. Lucky begun putting it on the agent and adjusting it so it’d fit right.

“Your car is in the motor pool, " He motioned through the door towards the back of the garage where a dozen or so cars sat. “Second one in from the left.” With that he limped back into the work area. The car in questions was a 1948 Delahaye Sport Berline slick and black, the trunk was open exposing a couple of cases laid open for inspection.